Open You

This all started on a miserable day about two weeks ago. Heavy rain and cold winds: the kind of autumn weather that made you want to stay inside with something warm. It was early evening when someone, or something knocked on my door. No doorbell, just a series of heavy thuds that demanded an answer. I wasn't slow getting the door but whoever, or whatever knocked was already long gone by the time I opened it.

I looked for answers: a car, a person, something. The only things waiting for me outside were unanswered questions, and that damned box. It was small and immaculate: no scuffs, scrapes or dings. It was wrapped... No, it was encased in brown paper, which had somehow stayed perfectly dry despite the rain. The paper was entrancingly smooth, with folds and creases that were strikingly precise. No postage, no address, no note, no way for me know where this thing came from.

It was too cold for me to stand there trying to figure this out, so I brought the box inside. It was light, and there was nothing inside for me to shake around. It wasn't until I set the box down, that I noticed a small piece of tape securing the brown paper. The tape had one word written on it: “Don't”. I left the box on the table by my front door that night. I figured one of my neighbors here in the apartment complex would come knocking for it soon enough.

A couple days went by, and no one had asked around about a missing package. I asked the neighbors I saw throughout that week, but no one knew anything about it. Like me, they assumed it was probably just some cheap prank. After two weeks I gave up and threw the box away, along with the rest of my trash. Moments after I shut and locked my door, I heard that demanding knock, and saw a familiar package on my welcome mat.

“Someone here is just messing with me” I thought, as I walked back out to the dumpster to throw the box away again. As soon as I shut my front door, something knocked at it again. I rushed for my window, but no one was there. I cautiously opened my door again, and the box was waiting for me, pristine and empty as always. I threw it out again and walked backwards to my apartment, checking and watching over my shoulders the whole way. I stopped at my doorway and waited, looking out over the dark parking lot. Once I was damn sure there wasn't a single soul hiding out there, I took a step backward and shut my door. Again, there was a knock at my door. Again, there was that damn box.

At first, no one ever assumes they're dealing with something paranormal. We jump to absurd conclusions to avoid the terror of the unknown; just as I did that night. I assumed I was dealing with some kind of “master prankster”. I assumed that if I played along, someone with a camera would pop out from behind a car, and end this nightmare. My assumptions are likely going to be the death of me. I picked up the box, took a couple steps away from my front door, and opened it.

I slid a finger under the brown wrapping, expecting it to tear as I forced my finger under the tape. The tape gently parted against my finger, and the paper offered no resistance, unfolding open. The box within was cardboard: the same unassuming shade of brown as the paper that encased it. A plethora of additional warnings, which I also ignored, were scrawled all over the box with a black, tar-like ink. “Don't” “please stop” “why?” “That hurts” “why are you doing this?” “Monster” “don't hurt me”.

I flipped the box over, pointing the open lid up. I pulled back the first two flaps, and ignored the “last chance” written on the second two flaps. The box was empty, save for a message cleanly written along the bottom. “Now, I open you.” With its message delivered, the box began to melt through my fingers, turning into a rotting ichor. Startled, I dropped the hellish putty, which splattered across the pavement. It bubbled and seethed, steaming away until nothing remained.

I looked around, waiting for someone to jump out. Hoping for someone to bring me back to my comfortable perception of reality. There was no one. I went back inside, poured myself a strong drink, and checked online for 'dissolving box prank' videos. I couldn't find anything that looked even remotely like what I had just seen. Sleep didn't come easily that night, and my dreams were hazy and fevered. I only remember long, pale claws and waking up in a cold sweat. That following morning, when I was woken up by the police, I found out what the message in that box meant.

The front wall of my apartment had been... Torn off. The wall and front door had been ripped away from the rest of the building and lied in rubble on the other end of the parking lot. No one could figure out how an entire wall had been removed, silently, within the span of six hours. We chalked it up to faulty construction, and one of my absent neighbors moving the rubble out of the way. Naturally, I called out of work that day and found a cheap motel to stay in while I processed what had just happened. I looked up similar incidents online: I wasn't alone.

I found several other news stories of “buildings mysteriously falling apart”. Walls inexplicably torn off and discarded silently in the middle of the night. More foolish assumptions and ridiculous justifications for sinister forces that lurk out of sight. I searched for “haunted packages” and “box that can't be discarded”. After hours of combing, I found a forum where people all relayed experiences similar to mine.

It always starts with the box, which apparently looks different for each person. One person claimed it was the size of a refrigerator, and blocked his door until he opened it. Another claimed it was a ring box, that whispered to her whenever she touched it. Another reported forgetting about it for over a year, only opening it when they moved into a new home. Each story seemed more far-fetched than the last; and I wouldn't have believed any of them if I hadn't experienced the same thing myself.

I browsed and posted on this forum for hours, until the post-shock fatigue caught up to me. Again, my sleep was restless: filled with nauseous, fevered dreams of ivory claws ripping things open. Again, I was awoken by the police. This time, it was my car. The roof had been torn off, and everything had been gutted from inside. The shredded seats, the ripped-up floor, even pieces of the frame were scattered around the lot in a display of deviant glee. The roof had been crumpled and punctured with several large holes. Claw holes.

About eight months ago, someone created and saved a thread, detailing the events of one Rickey Harlan. Rickey posted on this forum, just as I did. He even posted photos and news coverage of his torn-up house. The reason this thread in particular was saved, was the news story the original poster added after Rickey signed off. It detailed the “grisly murder” of Rickey Harlan. Same city, same time, same Rickey. They found pieces of him scattered all over the street. Just like his house, just like my car, Rickey had been “opened”.

Some people on the forum freaked out like I did, wracking their brains, scrambling for ideas and solutions. All of their frail ideas just seem like delaying the inevitable; which is probably why they never posted again. A couple of different people have reported living normal lives after receiving the box. They've had it stashed away for years, making sure curious hands never unleash the horrors it holds. I think that's the only way to survive once that package hits your doorstep.

I see it now, out of the corner of my eye. Long pale fingers, clutching at corners and clawing at doorways. I don't know if it always waits until you fall asleep; guess I'll find out soon enough. I just hope that what I'm writing here gets some circulation; I'll add some links to the forum if I have time. To those of you who have opened the box: I'm sorry, there's no hope for us. I just hope it's over quickly. To those of you who haven't opened the box yet: Don't.